Diamonds glitter in the springtime sun, grass grows green under noon-time fun. People gather, front and rear, see the man who shows no fear. He stands alone at a plate called home, facing a man who pitches alone. Behind, in front, he knows the rules, it’s not just a game, he’s nobody’s fool.
Long ball sinking, to the home-run king, batter-up winding, losing swing. The crowd stays silent, nothing to say, wind is empty, sliding away. Ball-one, strike-one, ball-two-three, Fourth one walks him. Nothing’s free.
Second batter takes his stance, looks at first with a sideways glance. First pitch, second pitch, balls and strikes, the batter eyes them with dislike. Next pitch wild, crowd jumps up, runner advances, just enough. Strike-three batter, calm returns, second base outlook, home is earned.
Next, the mountain moves to the plate, pitcher swallows, keeps things straight. Boos and hollers, yelps and cries, fans erupt, pennants fly. First pitch, last pitch, crack of the bat, outfielder running, caught on the track. Runner tagging, makes the play, third base standing. Going his way.
Two outs fever, fans attack, pitcher eases, tensions slack. The plate stands empty, a moment refrain, up steps the batter, the expression of pain. The pitcher smiles, lets go a laugh, the batter swings hard, the crowd takes a bath. Up shoots the ball, and outward it seems, into forever, of contrasting dreams. The runner runs wild, racing the plate, the crowd takes a breather, contented to wait. The ball hangs forever, starts its descent, the fielder is waiting. The inning is spent.
The field becomes silent, the grass grows alone, the long ball hitter, walked all the way home.